Morning Light

My eyes part slowly

And, blearily,

I gaze out the window

Which opens to the sprawling yard

Of oaks and cut wood and quiet breezes.

All the world is a shell of its mid-day self

A diminished and humbled alter ego –

Every patient blade of grass and clump of dirt

Takes on a shade of steel

Or cloud

Or night.

And suddenly

A blaze of orange peeks above the horizon

And spreads ripe life through the myriad shades of gray.

The charcoal leaves and steely bark and pale, waving flowers

Bloom into yellow green and brown and mauve –

A paintbrush has crossed all that had lain

In solemn patience before me and,

As if it too remarks upon God’s watercolor morning,

A lone bird

Singing its chromatic tune

Flits up into the fluttering oak,

Its red breast visible through the freshly-wakened foliage.